The Coaches Who Shaped Me, Why I am Thankful for Them, and Why They'd be Canceled Today
I was recently talking to one of the coaches who most influenced me and my coaching style about the state of the game of baseball and the state of our society and how a lot of our coaching techniques would get us canceled today. Even though we had both coached and mentored many young men who went on to get scholarships, play professionally, become policemen, firemen, teachers, and attorneys, and mature into quality husbands, fathers, and human beings in general.
We agreed that while players are more talented than ever, things like mental toughness and character development are suffering due to hypersensitivity to any adversity.
Is it the players who are more sensitive or entitled? Maybe to some degree. Is it the parents? Maybe to some degree. But I think the main problem is our society as a whole and how we have been conditioned to believe that we should be made to feel comfortable in every situation. This attitude precludes the natural course of teaching and learning moments from taking place.
Technology has made it impossible for us to ever feel discomfort. If we’re hungry we can pick up our phones and have a burrito en route within thirty seconds. If we disagree with a politician or comedian we can voice our opinion about it on social media and receive support from like-minded people. We are never without the things we need and we’re never wrong. If someone disagrees with us we unfollow, unfriend or worse cancel them.
This attitude makes it really challenging to teach young people how to deal with adversity. It makes it almost impossible to teach mental toughness and resiliency when a coach cannot map out a course by which to organically expose a young person to challenging situations so they can learn how to deal with things like disappointment or failure. Competition between stars dancing the Cha Cha on television is accepted but competition between two teammates for a starting role at shortstop is frowned upon.
Mentors are under a microscope. Where there used to be a trust and appreciation for a tertiary influence on a young person in the shape of a teacher or coach there is now complete disregard for the knowledge and experience these mentors bring to the table. Overzealous parents either think they know it all because they’ve watched a video on YouTube or they step in and disrupt the natural flow of teaching lessons because they can’t let go and allow another person to teach their children anything.
When I was ten I played for the San Mateo American Little League Tigers. My manager was an old crusty dude who would hit pregame while smoking a non-filtered Pall Mall cigarette. He was coach Buttermaker from Bad News Bears. He wore brown slacks, a collared short sleeve work shirt, a Tigers hat, and cleats. He’d walk down the length of the dugout and point to you as he told you where to go. “ Dave, go to short. Dean, go to second, Fred, put on the gear. “
If this guy walked onto the diamond in a tournament game today every single parent and player would think they’re being pranked by some TikTok account. But you know what, that crusty old dude taught me how to play baseball. And he taught me how to deal with challenges and failure. He fucking cared. And I loved him for caring. I loved him for taking the time to pass on his knowledge of the game to me, and later my little brother. I cherished my time with him. He was tough on me. He tried to turn me into a catcher but I was scared. When I took a foul ball off my forearm and rolled around crying he stood over me and said “ when you’re done with your tantrum I’ll show you how to avoid that in the future. “
In the moment I hated his guts. But after spending three years with him I understood his approach to teaching. He taught me a lot about sportsmanship and teamwork. He rooted for me to succeed without pretending to be a constant cheerleader or making me believe that my turds cured cancer and I pissed liquid gold. He taught and I learned. And the teachings didn’t always look like a Norman Rockwell painting. But it didn’t stop the learning from happening. For that I’m grateful.
From 15ish to 19 I had a coach who once told me that the swing I just made was the ugliest fucking thing he’s ever seen, even though the ball traveled 400+ feet for a home run. All the fans and my teammates cheered and high-fived each other, but as I rounded third in my home run trot he had his finger in his throat making a gagging motion. In the moment I was like “ fuck you dude “. But knowing what I know now about the game I laugh because he was 100% correct. He was an authoritative figure. He was big on discipline and accountability. He told us we could wear any color cleats we wanted…as long as they were black. He once made us attend a funeral for his fungo that one of our teammates broke.
This guy was bigger than life. Other coaches shrunk in his presence. If you didn’t play for him you were conditioned to hate him. If you played for him you loved him. He demanded that his players carry themselves a certain way and play the game the way it was intended to be played. If you fucked up he let you know. He let everyone know. He was the first coach I had that introduced the more complex strategies of the game. At 16 we learned things from him that our counterparts wouldn’t learn until they played in college. I absolutely loved playing for him. I learned a lot. Not just on the field. He gave me a sense of confidence that I didn’t have when I was younger. We won so frequently that it was the first time in my life I had to learn how to deal with success. Yeah, I had to learn how to not be a little asshole all the time just because nobody could beat us. This coach was adept at managing our character development in this area. We took on an air of confidence but we were gentlemen who were good sports. We wore black cleats and kept our hair short. We looked good and we played well. We did these things because our parents trusted this guy and his process. For that I’m grateful.
Because I had played for the aforementioned coach for several years in high school as well as summer ball and had experienced so much success, I walked into my next coach’s camp as if I was the swingin’ meat. That went over like a fart in church.
The first thing this dude did was whisper in my ear that I was no longer a big fish in a small pond. I was a guppy. He yelled at me in front of the upperclassmen that my newspaper clippings were sticking out of my pocket and that they meant nothing here. My teammates had a good laugh about it. In the moment I was like “ fuck you, you old goat “, but after spending three years with him I would have taken a bullet for him.
Even now, writing this, my heart beats a little faster. I think of all the yelling and lessons being taught and learned and I feel sad that this type of conditioning would not be allowed today. He broke me down. He broke me down and built me back up higher than I had been before. He repeated this process over and over again. One day he’d tell me approvingly that I was a bulldog with big balls. The next day I’d make a mistake or show a little too much confidence and he’d yell from his perch atop the third base hill that I was “ A FLEA, FLOATING DOWN THE RIVER ON HIS BACK WITH A HARD-ON, CALLING FOR THE DRAWBRIDGE TO BE RAISED “.
It was hard. He made me dig deep for characteristics I didn’t know I possessed. He made it possible for me to find the strength and toughness that I never knew I had.
I failed to call him once to let him know that I wouldn’t be able to attend a fundraiser because I had to work. The following day he made me stand on a fence 20’ high for four hours. He reminded my teammates that there was enough room up there for them too if they should be caught talking to me. Two hours into the punishment it started to rain. Not a light sprinkle. A torrential downpour that ended practice. Relieved, I started to climb down the ladder and was met halfway down by a yell that almost blew my hat off. “ Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Shitbird!?. Get your ass back up there! I’ll tell you when you can leave! “. For two more hours I stood on that fence with a teammate who had also fucked up. We were drenched. I had shin splints so bad that it made it look like I had calves on both sides of my lower legs. At the four-hour mark our coach came out and said we could come down.
As we changed into dry clothes in the clubhouse we commiserated and felt relieved that it was over. My teammate walked out of the clubhouse past coach’s office and coach said goodnight after chewing him out a bit more. As I walked by coach’s office he sat up from his desk and asked “ Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Shitbird? “. I said I was going home just like my teammate just did. Coach said, “ He’s a position player. He’s done for the day. You’re a pitcher. You still owe me all of your running. “
“ No fucking way, “ I thought. This dude is gonna make me stand on a fence for four hours in the rain and then make me run for an hour when I can barely stand up? Fuck this dude! Seriously, fuck this guy. He’s sick. He just hates me. How is this helping me?
Coach watched from his office window as I did my running. When I slowed down out of sheer pain and exhaustion he’d poke his head out of the clubhouse and yell “ DON’T CHEAT ME SHITBIRD! “. His voice would echo through the now-empty campus. When I finished my pitcher conditioning he said very calmly and casually “ Goodnight Shitbird. In the future, if you’re going to miss something call me. “.
Over a three-year period that included one season off for Tommy John surgery and rehab my name went from Shitbird to Leary to Lear. My feelings would alternate daily from wanting this guy to die to wanting to run through a brick wall for him. Again and again, he’d break me down and build me back up higher. On the field, he taught me an advanced game theory that made me love baseball more than I ever had. And he conditioned my physical body so I could execute the strategies he taught me. Off the field, he taught me how to carry myself and how to deal with life’s challenges. He gave me a tenacity that got me through things in life that had nothing to do with baseball. For that I am grateful.
The coaches that influenced me most said and did things that would seem crazy today. They said and did things that would get them canceled in two seconds. But without their commitment to teaching, I wouldn’t have learned the important stuff that worked in tandem with the on-field talent. Without their attention and focus, even when it was critical and negative, I don’t know if I would have learned the things I needed to learn. Our parents do their best. And they should certainly be our main influences. But without that tertiary influence guiding us I’m not sure we ever gain the perspective needed to move beyond what our parents can teach us.